Love's About To Change My Heart - Larry Stylinson Fanfiction
by BenLovesLadyGaga
Summary: Eradicate! is a murdering, government based organisation that has a few recognisable people working for them. But when Harry receives his sixth job, can he go through with killing Louis? -tags - louis tomlinson harry styles niall horan zayn malik liam payne ziall simon cowell one direction AU smut slash m/m boy x boy dark fic potential character murder lady gaga little mix union j
1. Chapter 1

Hey hey hey. Idek where i got this idea from... still i think it should be a good read. Wanted Gaga in this because i am a hau. Oh and i cant tell the different between past and present tense. Want Ziall because i am so niche... Twitter - nigellatommo A03 - ladygagasbitchben am i seeing 1d in june? - yes

I live for the reviews, reviews, reviews.

Ha.

Really, I do.

Eradicate! isn't a government-based organisation designed to kill people living on their own in really big houses so bigger families could replace them. Well, it is, but that's a secret. It also may or may not be run by none other than the not-so infamous Mr. Cowell, a Simon, who actually isn't known to the British public – or any other public, for that matter. Not even all of the government know about it, bizarrely enough; no, David Cameron was notified before he became prime minister, and yes, it was a shock to him, but in order to keep his place at Downing Street he has had to accept it.

Eradicate! didn't kill people over the age of 50. Anyone under that with a perfectly well functioning body, living in a house worth over £450,000, is to be killed. Not brutally, mind you, no; the workers are sent in to break in to the house at three in the morning and slip some cyanide in to a place where the person is most likely to drink from, like the bottom of the kettle, or a few glasses. The deadly substance is transparent, and closes up the gullet, killing the opponent in thirty seconds flat. The reason why people aren't killed over fifty is because either they are widowed and have lots of family constantly around, or because they actually have paid off the mortgage. Aside from this fact, no one, no matter how forced they are, would have the heart to tip off an OAP.

These people do not have families. Simon's PA and office worker, Nick Grimshaw, looks up information on the person, sees everything logged on the person, locates the whereabouts of the person's family. Therefore, nobody wonders why the person has gone missing, and Sky news and other major news companies are paid off to say nothing about, so the police are rendered useless.

And so you may be wondering where people get employed from. Yes, it's a valid point – Mr. Cowell can't exactly put up posters reading 'HIT MEN WANTED' around the streets of London. No; the workers aren't employed.

They are kidnapped.

Shrewd, intelligent teenagers who have finished their A-levels and received all A*s are kidnapped from their homes by other workers and are drugged to sleep. When they wake up, they would be in a completely new environment, sharing a room with two single beds in a fancy apartment with a fellow newbie. The apartment is in a swanky, tall building which blends in with other London buildings. The building doesn't have a website or a name – or a front entrance – and so people do not talk about it.

The workers and bosses call this building the 'Base'.

The workers are extremely well looked after. After being kidnapped, a letter is posted through their freshly re-painted door, telling them to meet in the Barnden hall. Attached is a map of how to get their, and once they are in there Mr. Cowell himself would introduce himself, Nick Grimshaw and the head and assistant head boys and girls.

And this is the point where Harry Styles got to with his new roommate, Zayn, two years ago:

"You have been chosen as the cleverest bunch of the British public of your age, so I believe a congratulations are in order." Mr. Cowell had stepped down from the podium and, along with Nick and the over-enthusiastic heads and assistant head boys and girls, given the crowd of around fifteen a long and painfully awkward clap. Harry had half expected to hear a cricket chirp. He'd shared a frown with Zayn at that point. "Now," Cowell'd stepped up on to the podium already, "listen." And with a deadly set face, his tone switched borderline terrifying, "we are a government based organisation, so before I go on, I mean it when I say that you are safe. Your families have already been told why you are here, what's going to happen and when you'll get back." After this, the crowd of fifteen had turned round to each other and murmured in an indecipherable mutter. "Quiet," Cowell declared, "you will be part of Eradicate! until you are twenty-one, where you will be free to live your life with a job found for you by the government. But until then, you are under our control. Eradicate!'s aim is improve the cost of living crisis in England. By doing this, the government must not constantly shell out money to build more expensive houses only for young, rich individuals to occupy for the rest of their lives, when a grand family of even twelve could live there instead. Do you understand so far?" He'd raised his eyebrows expectantly at the audience, who all nodded meekly. Harry looked around at that point: people were shifting awkwardly in their space, unsure of where this was headed. "Good," Cowell had interrupted Harry's thoughts, "so you do understand why such necessities must be done to ensure improvement. These necessities are extreme. They involve committing the most injustice crime of all. Murder." Cowell continued, rather casually, to room full of sharp gasps and teenagers covering their mouths in withheld fear. "Yes, yes. Murder. Get used to the word. Now, you may think that we are bluffing, that we actually are a murdering company that have nothing to do with the government. Fair enough. That's why we picked you lot out – but here is labour MP Ed Milliband to further elaborate." And as the tall, handsome MP stepped on to the stage, Harry, and a few other people who had obviously taken law or politics in college, visibly relaxed at the sight of a well known and respected figure. Ed cleared his throat, tapped his fingertips on each side of the podium and gave the crescent shaped crowd a sympathetic furrow of his brow before speaking.

"Do not panic," he'd spoken softly, Harry would distinctively remember, but at the time it was somewhat irrelevant, "I have been aware of this organisation for eleven years now and since I have funded it I have become attached to all of our workers. You are, as Simon previously said, the brightest bunch of them all, and so we can rely on you to do a good job. And I'm not prepared to lie, here, we also chose you guys because you could easily suss us out." He gave a small grin which no one returned. "Now, do not get it in to your heads that you will be brutally murdering people every week. No; you will be thoroughly trained for a year, when the other people your age are retaking failed courses, to break in to people's houses. You will then deposit some cyanide in to a place where people either drink or make drinks, like a kettle or a cup. The cyanide is transparent, so therefore they would not notice. However, for the people who do actually rinse their cups and kettles before they drink – hardly anyone – we would send in an undercover agent, posing as a salesperson, to check if the person is still alive. But you don't have to worry about that. You go in the house, slip in the cyanide and leave. Simple as that.

"Do not worry about the police," Ed continued, "all authorities are under control. Again, you do not need to worry about any of that stuff. But we wouldn't want to leave you in the dark, so if you really want to know about any of 'that stuff', feel free to ask. But for now, are there any other questions?" Harry remembered looking round at that point, face turning incredulous as a girl with a big bust and big red curly hair rose her arm shakily, to which Ed raised his eyebrows, surprised. "Yes?"

"H-huh-huh-how many times do we have to k-kuh-"

"It depends how many jobs need doing. You have five year groups above you, and as you progress you will do more jobs per year. Usually, your average second year – the first year when you start actually breaking in to houses, i.e. a year from now – would kill around four, five people a year." After Ed had said this, the room visibly relaxed. "Back to Simon for one last talk."

"Thanks, Ed," Simon winked at Ed as they switched positions, "you will not talk about this to the general public. Your families have been sworn to secrecy, too. You are not to leave the premises without signing off and you will not back out of a job. Training starts on the 19th of September – two weeks tomorrow – and until then you are given time to settle in, get used to things a bit and make friends. Breakfast is at 8am sharpish, but being the bright lot that you are we are sure you are used to early mornings anyway. Lunch will be served at 12.30pm and dinner at 6.30pm. Breakfast and lunch will be served in here, the Barnden Hall, whilst dinner will be served in the Lautus hall, located on the right of your maps.

"Right. This is it people. You are free to do anything you want that is above the law and rules, so off you go." Mr Cowell nodded, then left down the side of the stage along with Nick, heads and assistant head boys and girls and Ed, and that was the last Harry would see of them in two years.

"What the fuck is this?!" Zayn stormed in to his and Harry's room, fisting bunches of his dark brown quiff in his hands. Harry had watched him kick the metal railing of the bed frame before sitting on the mattress itself, tucked away in the corner of the living area. Harry sat on his own bed a metre and a half across it, admiring Zayn's aggressiveness with a smirk.

"I know." Harry replied with his own northern accent, "but we just have to go with it. There's no going back."

"And how are you so calm about this?"

Harry shrugged. "As long as my family's safe. It could be a lot worse if you think about it."  
And then a knock at the door. Harry raised his eyebrows as a girl peeped in, "sorry, the door was ajar. We're all meeting in Barnden right now to get to know each other." And with a smile, she withdrew. Harry gave Zayn a defeated look, before sighing and getting up.

"C'mon. We need friends to get through this, don't we?" Harry also remembered offering Zayn his hand, which Zayn almost reluctantly took and used to haul himself up.

There were nice enough people there. Four girls were glued to each other's sides – Jesy, Perrie, Jade and Leigh-Anne – and also four boys were equally as close – George, JJ, Jaymi and Josh. A girl was sat on her own, called Stefani, who came across as very eccentric – she was wearing a coconut bra and seaweed skirt – and asked people to refer to her as 'Gaga'. She had moved to England the year before over from New York. This left two other boys, turning out to be Harry's and Zayn's next door neighbours, called Liam and Niall to join the former two to make a group. It was simply fascinating; they hadn't even met each other, and the groups they would be in for the next five years were supposedly set in stone. And they were.

Now, two years on, Harry, Zayn, Niall and Liam have not only gotten over puberty and developed in to squeaky clean and smooth-skinned eighteen year olds, but also everyone has settled down, accepting their job and getting on with life. Harry has done four jobs so far – the same as everyone else, except Gaga who has done eight. Each 'job done' earns three thousand pounds, on top of a weekly pocket money of twenty pounds.

Harry found himself a nervous, shaking wreck on his first job. He knows exactly what to do – even back in his first job, which was last January, four months after training. But the actual fear of being caught, fear of knowing that he will kill this person was absolutely terrifying. But now, after doing five, he has learned to accept it and goes about it in a very relaxed manner. He doesn't think about it too much – I mean, what is there to think about? He does it or his family die. Simple as. And it's not like he can call the police – who would they incline to believe? A bunch of kids or the higher authorities?

An unspoken rule, also, is that relationships from the outside are not allowed. Harry did want – wants¬ – a relationship. Preferably Zayn, but Harry doesn't think he's gay. Hm.  
Harry is snapped out of his thoughts when he is in the library and a couple of long fingers create to loud flicks above him. He looks up, and there, right there, a man who he hadn't seen in just over two years, Mr. Cowell.

"Styles," he says, as Harry immediately snaps his Harry Potter book shut and stands up sharply.

"Sir."

"Follow me." And so he does. Harry trails Simon through the compound, walking past a group of friends who whistle lowly and mutter, "woah, that boy's in the shit." And with that, Harry's adam's apple seems to blow up and block his throat and his heart hammers loudly in his ears and chest – is he going to die? His mother, Anne, his sister, Gemma and his step-dad, Robin... are they going to die? Or... are they already dead? Maybe Simon has their severed necks stuck up on pikes in his office- "Jesus Christ, Harry, sit down." Simon suddenly says softly, and he is sitting in his leather wheely chair and already pouring out a couple of whiskies in a couple of gleaming glasses. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Here," Simon hands Harry a glass, and Harry doesn't drink whisky, much prefers the softer taste of vodka or rum, but he takes it with a weak smile anyway, swirling it around as Simon empties his own. "C'mon, boy, drink up." Simon smacks the desk in front of him then, and Harry looks down at the coffee coloured liquid which seems to be teasing him. Nonetheless, he raises it to his lips and tips the contents in to his mouth, swallowing before the burning freezing liquid burn freezes his mouth. Too much. But seemingly enough to make Harry screw up his face, as Simon lets out a loud laugh that sounds genuine and somewhat patronises Harry. "Harry," he says after flicking away a single tear under his eye, "do you have any idea why you are here?"

"No sir." Harry replies politely after a few seconds, not answering straight away as he didn't want to come across as snappy.

"Hm. Well, your mission controller, Ben, is on holiday in Australia at the moment, so I'm going to be briefing your next job. Which is tomorrow. Lucky for some, eh?" Simon says all in an outward breath, and Harry can't control letting out a laugh through his grin. Hahaha, that was funny. He only laughed because the whole thing was a bloody juxtaposition – the image of his mission controller drinking a Pina Colada in some sunny beach, whilst he is stuck here until he is 21. Simon seemed to have understood, though, as he smiles too. "Yes, yes. Well, here you are." Harry is handed the dreaded brown envelope, which reads in red stamped ink at the front: 'PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL INFORMATION NOT TO BE LEAKED. PERISH AFTER USE.' And this is known as 'the stamp'. When Harry went away with his first envelope, everyone muttered around him 'has he got the stamp?' and 'poor kid'. So Harry picked it up and uses it and passes it along to lower year groups to this day. When Harry opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, under the repeated message on the front of the envelope is his mission brief, which he reads whilst Simon watches him judgingly:

LOCATION: DONCASTER, NORTH-WESTERN ENGLAND  
VALUE OF PROPERTY: £610,000  
OCCUPANT(S): 1  
NAME OF OCCUPANT(S): TOMLINSON, LOUIS WILLIAM  
AGE OF OCCUPANT(S): 21

Harry looks up to Simon as something weird goes off in his chest, as Simon nods encouragingly at him and pours out another two whiskies.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Um **_**_hi_**

Harry doesn't sleep that night. Every now and then (more like every minute) he turns round in his cotton bed and curses. It happens every night before a job - especially the first. Harry remembers the orangey fire clouds arise before he had gotten to sleep, that night (morning). But... this job. This guy. He's twenty one. The youngest Harry's ever killed is 32, and they are usually quick and meaningless. But this one's different. The picture of the guy... Louis William Tomlinson...

He is drop-dead gorgeous.

Well, he will be, Harry thinks, then his heart pangs as he feels disgusted in himself at the twisted pun.

It's about one when Zayn gets fed up of Harry's tossing and turning, and he hisses, "shut the fuck up, will you?"

"Sorry." Harry mutters without much care.

After a long silence, Zayn pipes up again, "so are the rumours true? Where is it - who is it?"

"Some hot guy from Doncaster." Harry blurts without thinking, then immediately covers his mouth in the darkness and wow, he's never actually told Zayn that he is gay.

"What? Did you say hot-"

"Guy, yes Zayn, guy." Harry doesn't really care - his thoughts are elsewhere.

"That - er-"

"A problem?"

"No, naah, no way man," Zayn quickly backtracks, putting on a casual tone. That Harry can easily see through.

"Good."

After another pause, Zayn is once again the one to break the awkward tension, "so... is it, like, you know, just guys you into, bro, or do you like, swing both ways, like-"

"Oh give me a break, Zayn. I hate vagina and tits and love dick. That what you wanna hear?" Harry snaps, some (most) of his stress getting the better of him.

Zayn understands though. He really does. "Bro, look... I don't really give a shit if you're bent, straight or just fucking wonky," he says, and Harry snorts. "It ain't gonna change our... you know,"

"Our what?" Harry smirks. He knows what Zayn means, he just want to hear the raven boy say it out loud.

"Our friendship."

Harry gets to sleep ten minutes later.

* * *

Technically Harry's job isn't until tomorrow, because he has to get there by 3am. Well, he thinks this until a certain someone interrupts him halfway through an enjoyable breakfast natter with his friends.

"So you're actually gay, Harry?" Jesy asks, slightly aghast with her mouth set in an almost perfect 'o'. Perrie merely licks her chocolaty fingers - and Harry swears it was aimed at the quiffed boy next to him - and says casually, "its not a surprise, babe."

"How?" Harry says, eyebrows knitting together. How can someone tell he is gay?

"Well," Perrie then wipes her fingers on her tissue and leans forward on folded arms on the set one of the tables set out in the Barnden hall, "you're just... soft, like. I don't think you could handle the pressure of a girl, you'd be much better off looked after in a guy's hands."

"That's discrimination." Zayn raises his eyebrows playfully at her as Harry comprehends Perrie's words. A light pink tinge singes Perrie's face as she backs away slightly.

"You know - Zayn, Harry, I didn't mean it like that- you know that, Harry?" Perrie stutters helplessly.

"Naah, he's fine," Niall is suddenly next to them and clapping the curly boy's back, with a tray stacked full of pain au chocolates and cereals and nut bars and crossaints and some weird thing Harry doesn't want to go in to. It was oozing green stuff. Liam is next to him with an orange juice.

Some contrast.

"Niall, it's rude to just interrupt like that. Uh, hi guys." Liam looks up briefly before flicking his eyes back down to Niall's food, "Jesus Christ Ni, how are you not clinically obese?" But Niall waves him off, pretty much plunging his face in to a bowl of cereal. Harry thinks this is a strange turn on.

"So you think I'm gay because I am weak?" Harry asks Perrie in genuine amazement.

"Styles, I am sure this lovely ladies do not want to hear stories of your homosexuality." Simon is suddenly behind Harry, voice strong and defiant. Harry's ears burn. Where the fuck where all these people coming from?!

"No, sir." Harry says anyway. Simon walks round the six seater table and gestures for Harry to follow, who does so with a violent shade of magenta burned on his face. The last thing he hears are Jesy and Perrie's giggles followed by an 'unlucky mate' from Niall.

"All our transport is fully booked from 1:30am, which is when you are scheduled to leave, yes?" Simon's nursing another whisky but this time he doesn't offer Harry any.

"Yes, sir." Harry answers dutifully.

"The job cannot be put off any longer. It will have to be done tonight, no doubt about it. So you will be met at reception at 11 by Eleanor who can ring one of our white vans up." Simon says, before emptying his glass and slightly wincing whilst he pours another. Harry wonders how many he gets through a day as it's only half-eight.

"Okay. That's fine. Thank you sir," Harry offers half a smile before standing up to leave. Before he turns the handle though, Simon quickly tells him, "good luck, Harry."

Harry looks at the timetable tacked up on his and Zayn's wall. It has a list of all tutors coming in throughout each day; not that they don't know half the stuff the tutor is on about already, just that most of the teens (or adults, now) get bored really easily, and having classes gets them through the day.

_10:00 - Business_

_12:00 - Mechanical Mathematics_

_14:00 - Saxophone_

_16:00 - Law_

_18:00 - JUST ONE HOUR - English Literature_

_19:00 - JUST ONE HOUR - English Language_

_20:00 - Biology_

_22:00 - Late catch up_

Well, that's the rest of Harry's day sorted then.

* * *

Louis Tomlinson is sitting on his red leather couch, sipping tea and watching a recorded episode of Coronation Street. He's been on this fucking chair all day - he thinks there ought to be an outline of his body etched in to it. Nonetheless, he sinks further in to it as the scolding hot, bitter taste of strong tea journeys down his throat. He momentarily closes his eyes, savouring the moment; tea is his favourite thing. Ever.

He glances down at his iPhone 5S as the theme tune signals the adverts. No texts. In fact, the last text he has received was eight days ago, from his network provider. He sighs; out of his nine contacts, no one has bothered to text him.

He is a lonely man. Boy. Very lonely. His father died in a car crash and his mother couldn't cope with the stress so she legged it. Louis still has her phone number - four numbers, in fact, as he once desperately ran around her friends demanding numbers, all of which turned out fake.

But he likes the numbers. They make him feel closer to mum (it makes it look like has more contacts).

His four sisters and he had appealed to stay with Louis, but then grandma took them away ("for the better,") and Louis hasn't seen them since.

So. That's how a family of seven has sadly fizzled to one. And that's how that 'one' inherited everything. House, cars, kettle, even the fucking trampoline in the backyard.

"Fuck sake." Louis mutters, "I need a cat." He sips more tea, relishing the burn. He needs more. He needs...

Some action. "Fuck it," Louis curses once more. He switches his mounted plasma TV off, before leaning forward to place his mug down on the small yet expensive glass table in front of him and standing up from the sofa with a sticky leather noise, which Louis cringes at. "I need some action," he voices his thoughts.

Action; something Louis hasn't had in the sad, pathetic 21 years of his life. Not so good ol' virgo intacto.

Leaving behind his best friend, in the form of a pint-sized 'I HEART TEA' mug, Louis exits the lounge through his gleaming white door, which leads him into his hallway and staircase. He trots up them with somesort of effort, knowing which steps to avoid because of the creaks. How sad.

He turns to his immediate right at the top of the stairs, entering his bright white and practically grinning bathroom. Louis cleans it every other day - like the other eleven grande rooms in this house - to keep himself occupied. And gives him an excuse not to go out.

Louis closes the door behind him, locks it and bolts it. He doesn't know why; well, he does really, it's because Fozzy and Pheobs always used to walk in on him whilst he was in the shower. Or on the toilet. Or... yeah.

He unbuttons red polo neck before realising his green and red Christmas jumper must come off first. So it does; there is a hiss of fabric and whoosh of air before the reindeer and snowman patterned clothing is clashing against the brilliant white of his bathroom tiles. Louis thinks white tiles, white bath, white shower and white walls are kind of sickening, but mum liked them so so does Louis.

"Why am I wearing a Christmas jumper in January?" Louis asks allowed, "because you're stupid." He answers himself dutifully.

Now that the whole jumper thing is out the way, Louis pulls the collar of his polo neck up and over his head, tossing it down next to the jumper. He turns the knob next to the entrance of the walk-in shower round and round until there are four shower heads spraying out already steaming liquid in a row. He quickly tangles his way out of his soft tracksuit bottoms and underwear before diving in head first, hands coming up to expose all angles to powerful hot spray.

After wetting every known part of his body, he turns round and puts his hand under the penis soap dispenser he bought two months ago. The shampoo comes (literally) out of the penis head by sensor and because it's white it looks realistic. Louis almost doesn't apply it to his soft brown locks but, who really gives a shit?

He works his fingertips in to his scalp, slowly and somewhat tantalizingly, before rubbing them rather flutteringly over the tips of his hair, making sure to cover every part.

Louis moans out loud slightly - what? It's not his fault, he just has a really sensitive scalp.

After rinsing out his thoroughly lathered locks and covering himself luxuriantly in Old Spice shower gel (it's on the shelf not in the dispenser), he rinses that off too and turns off the shower(s), padding out on to the bright white tiles and wrapping a fluffy, yes, white, towel round his waist.

The landing needs a wipe down, Louis thinks, as he steps out of the bathroom and the cold bites at his skin. The first thing he notices though is mysterious white crumbs - which is odd, of course, because Louis doesn't eat food upstairs.

But that's to ponder over later. Right now, he needs to blowdry his hair in to a proud and mighty quiff and gawp at how sexy and bangable his arse looks when it's bulging out of black jeans that need to be surgically removed.

* * *

Harry's shitting bricks. Those bricks have never been this bad, before. Whether it's because he is going to be two hours early and so this guy might still be up or because this guy is so young and so cute and so hot he is not sure. He's not sure he's sure of anything - or whether he will be ever again. But one thing he is sure about is that this van really needs to stop otherwise he will literally throw up on the passenger seat window next to him.

Perhaps El senses this from behind him, as she is now signalling for the driver to stop and sure enough, they are now in a lay-by.

The driver opens the door for him and stands behind him as Harry bends down over a bush. Harry quickly snaps, however: "I'm not going to fucking runaway on the middle of the fucking M1, am I?! Give me some space!"

Harry gets his wish, as Eleanor pulls the driver back. He does his business there and then, tears streaming down his face. But that's because he always cries when he throws up.

No - not this time.

He doesn't want to do this.

He can't do this.

There is a massive, steep, grassy hill five metres ahead of him, and if the trees below don't catch him from hitting solid ground, then. Well.

So be it.

* * *

Louis loves it. He is such an attention whore; there are bodies rutting and rocking against his own, there's always a hand on his crotch, on his chest, arms, arse, thighs - fuck, the weed is pumping round his body to the beat of the heavy sound of some Summertime Sadness remix and he thinks he is going to orgasm from the experience.

After some 90s shit comes on, Louis heads out of the crowd and blaring lights and towards the pink lit bar, where a some shirtless waiter with a spinny bow-tie on tosses his a whisky.

"That's on me, honey." He says in an overly camp voice that Louis inwardly cringes at, but he takes the whisky anyway and quickly downs it. He doesn't really like whisky, has always preferred the smooth taste of rum or a vodka. But still, he needs to drink himself in to oblivion and not much else can help him with that other than this cringey waiter and his endless supply of heavenly fluids.

"And the next one?" Louis shouts over the music, and he only just realises how fucked out his voice sounds already.

"Sure, babe." Cringe, drink, repeat. Times three.

Five.

... or maybe ten.

This is going to be a night to end all nights.

* * *

The driver had obviously sensed what Harry was going to do as he is now pulling a kicking and screaming Harry away from the hill and hurling him in to the van.

"You crafty little shit, you ain't coming out of there til we're at Donny."

"And how long's that?" Harry replies angrily.

"We're twenty minutes in to the trip, so I'd say a couple of hours and a half. Go and watch porn or something." The driver gives him one last incredulous look before moving his fat masses to the front seat, revealing Eleanor, who was obviously standing behind him the whole time.

"Sorry, Haz," she says sympathetically, which surprises Harry. They've probably exchanged ten words before in the history of ever, and now their on nickname basis. Ha.

"'T's okay. 'S'not your fault." Harry replies sulkily. El gives him one last knowing look before following the driver in to the front compartment of the van, leaving Harry in the pitch blackness. Just how he likes it.

* * *

"What time do you finish work?" Louis has to shout at the waiter, who's eyebrows perk up immediately and looks at his watch.

"Now," he suddenly says, and before Louis knows it he's being dragged off in to the pink toilets, porn-like music being played softly through the ceiling speakers.

And then he is in the cubicle, sat down on the closed toilet seat, and this guy is sucking him off. Louis doesn't want to look down, doesn't want to feel even more ashamed than he already is because this has never happened before and even though he is pretty much higher than a squirrel on an elephant he doesn't want this horrible, wrenching feeling in his chest and before he knows it he is pulling his trousers and underwear up and this stupid guys is looking up and him with stupid eyes and stupid hair.

"What the fuck?" He stands up, and Louis realises he's at least a foot shorter than this twat.

"I can't - I won't-" Louis looks up in to his eyes, to plead, but this guy isn't having it, he's being pushed up against the wall and his neck is being attacked- "Fuck - _off_!" With a tremendous force, Louis knees the other guy right in the balls, as he backs out of the cubicle and rushes out the toilets, rushes past the blurring lights and high drunks and pink lanterns and he is out the building.

He crumples against the brick wall there, the intense cold of the night sobering him up, as the beat of the club thumps away and Louis misses his fucking family.

He stays strong, however. With one last effort, he gets up and walks off in to the direction of his massive house, and decides he is going to make something of his life.

* * *

Harry & co pull up on a street nearby Louis' in order to avoid any suspision whatsoever, but this mean that Harry has to talk a whole ten minutes to get to his final destination.

He could try running away - there is enough money in his and his mum and stepdad's bank accounts to let them emergrate to somewhere hot - Doncaster is not so far away from Cheshire as Harry had thought.

But no; Eleanor has to accompany him to the corner of the street to 'make sure he gets there safely'. Or because they knew he was thinking of doing a fast one.

So it's not quite pitch black, street lamps illuminate their path for most of the way, and every time one shines in Harry's face he hisses and briskly moves out of the spotlight.

And to make things worse, some jazzy shit he tried to play on the saxophone earlier is playing round and round in his head, and Harry thinks that song will be the reminder of what he does for a living.

And to make things even more worse, he was now trespassing in Louis' back garden, and was about to cross the long, twenty metre stretch of grass and tree and plant Louis' poison.

* * *

Louis stumbles across the cul-de-sac of Crate Street, which signifies the end of the road. However, Louis knows there is a narrow alleyway between two of the houses which leads on to the entrance of his own street.

Turning in to his said street, Louis starts to feel sorry for himself, and so starts to sing, "Unbreak my heart," he mutters, "say you love me again... undo this hurt you caused when you walked out the door and walked out of my FUCKING LIFE!" He cries, voice cracking, "UNCRY THESE TEARS! OH MUM, I'VE CRIED SO MANY NIGHTS!" He walks up to his front yard, sniffling quietly, "I love you mum. Come back and un-break my heart."

He unlocks his door and enters his positively warm house, before turning round and closing it behind him with a quiet thud. Louis leans forward against the door at that point, head in arms, as he softly cries those all too familiar tears, hot against his cold cheeks.

Then he remembers; he remembers what his mother had said before she left. She had said 'stiff upper lip, son, stiff upper lip'. And so, with another great effort, Louis turns round, pressing his thumbs underneath hiseyes to stopanymore tears from forming.

And then flicks the switch on next to him, the very that turns on the long halleway chandelier which glistens in pride and just about makes out the kitchen at the far end of the hall.

And in this case, just about makes out this tall, lanky curly boy in black clothing from head to toe, with his hands covered behind the open kettle lid and giving Louis a dumbfounded look, like a rabbit caught in the headlights.


End file.
